Gospel Story Finder

Living Christmas card. When I served as a missionary in Brazil, all of our appointments fell through on Christmas night, so I suggested to my companion, “Let’s be a live Christmas card and visit our neighbors!” To my surprise, we were well received at every house. As we sang the wonderful hymns of Christmas and read their corresponding scriptures, I felt something extraordinary and profound. I understood more fully the love of the Savior, and I could see tears in the eyes of our neighbors who before had been so suspicious of us. After we returned home and had our dinner, I recorded the following in my journal: “Tonight we shared the birth of the King of kings with our neighbors. The Spirit magnified us and united us for eternity.”Nivaldo P., Brazil

My father, not a member of the Church, was actively involved in local business and community affairs. His motto was “If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right.” As my siblings and I discovered the gospel and lived it to the best of our abilities, he noticed the changes for good in our lives. In 2000, President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008) stayed in my father’s home on his return from the dedication of the Suva Fiji Temple. During that visit, the Spirit touched my father’s heart, and I was privileged to baptize him when he was 82 years old. He found great joy in the gospel and was unashamed and bold in sharing it with others during the last days of his life.

“When I was five, my father was called on a mission. My mother and we three children missed him very much during the two years he was gone, but I also know that the Lord blessed our family. One day my younger brother fell under a piece of moving farm equipment, a disc harrow. His head was seriously cut, and the doctor came to our home. While my brother lay on the kitchen table, the doctor sewed him up and told us that he wouldn’t live much longer. That was on Wednesday. When the doctor came to check my brother again on Saturday, we were playing at my uncle’s place. My brother was climbing around in the top of an apricot tree. The doctor took the bandages off my brother’s head and was amazed that the wound had healed. It was truly a miracle.”

Have you ever had a school teacher who has made a real difference in your life? How about one you thought was especially funny, or smart, or nice? Youth in the Edgewood Ward, Kimball (Mesa, Arizona) East Stake thought long and hard about those questions and then invited 37 of their favorite school teachers to a special teacher appreciation dinner at their church building.
The young men and young women ate dinner with the teachers and then performed a dance number for them. Three of the students also gave short talks about the importance of teachers in their lives.
“The teachers here are remarkable,” said Mia Maid Brittney Riggs during the program. “Teacher starts with T, and so does the following: ‘Thank you, teachers.’”
Certificates of appreciation and a program highlighting the lives and achievements of the teachers were given to each teacher in attendance.
Now there’s a program that deserves an A for effort.

I first finished Personal Progress right before the new value, Virtue, came out. My Young Women leaders encouraged me to wait to get my Young Womanhood Recognition until I completed the new value, so I agreed to do so. I had no idea what was in store for me. We received the new booklet, I completed the Virtue experiences, and then I saw the Virtue project: read the entire Book of Mormon. I hate to admit it, but I had never read the Book of Mormon cover to cover. This was my new challenge for the year.
Over the year, I read the Book of Mormon from beginning to end. When I completed my reading, my testimony had grown so much! The stories came alive, and reading the scriptures gave me a lot of spiritual advice. I encourage everyone to read it, discover for yourself the blessings, and help your testimony grow. It will change your life. Even if you just read for a set number of minutes every day, you will learn so much. After receiving my Young Womanhood Recognition, I decided I would wear my necklace every day to remind myself of the promises and covenants I have made with Heavenly Father and the many things I learned from reading the Book of Mormon. I am so thankful that my Young Women leaders encouraged me to complete the Virtue value. I hope you will take the challenge to read the Book of Mormon and let it touch your life.

At the community pool I looked in the lost and found for a missing piece to my goggles. I didn’t find the piece, but I saw a mermaid doll. I thought it was mine, so I took it. When I got home I found another mermaid doll in my room. I knew the one I had found at the pool was not mine. I could have kept both, but I wanted the person who had lost the doll to find it. We returned the extra doll to the pool. I know that I chose the right thing to do, and it made me feel happy to help someone else.

Shifting and squirming in his chair, Frankie whispered to Clarissa, “These chairs are hard. I’m bored.”
Sister Peterson, the Primary teacher, asked, “What did you say, Frankie?”
“Oh, nothing,” Frankie answered. He continued squirming.
Sister Peterson smiled. “It’s almost time to go home.”
“Home,” Frankie thought. He had been in so many homes he had to stop to remember which one he was in now.
After the closing prayer, Frankie sprang from his chair and raced into the hallway. As he skidded around the corner, he ran right into Mr. Adams—or “Dad,” as he was trying to remember to call him.
“Hi, Frankie, I was looking for you. Let’s go home.”
There was that word again—home. Frankie climbed onto the back seat of the van. Most of the foster families he had lived with drove vans. If he sat in the back, everyone usually forgot he was there. Then no one asked him questions. Questions made him nervous because he didn’t always know the answers. Then he felt—well, slow. The kids in the other places he had lived had made fun of him and called him names. Even the adults usually got annoyed when he didn’t understand everything right away. So Frankie chose the back row. It was safer that way. The problem was, it wasn’t working with this family.
“How was Primary, Frankie?” Mrs. Adams asked.
Frankie thought hard. He wanted to be honest. “Well,” he said slowly, “I tried to listen, but it was really hard.” He felt his whole body tense up. He was afraid that Mrs. Adams was going to be upset with him for not understanding. What she said surprised him. “What did the teachers say? Maybe we can help you understand.” She sounded very gentle, like she really wanted to help.
She listened patiently as Frankie tried to tell her what he heard in Primary. “Well, it was about God being my father, or something like that,” Frankie mumbled. The idea sounded strange to him. He thought for sure it would sound silly to Mrs. Adams. (“Mom,” he silently reminded himself.) He figured the other kids would tease him for giving the wrong answer, but they didn’t.
“That’s what Sister Robbins said in sharing time,” Taylor said. “She talked about how we’re all children of God, and about how He loves us—just like you do, Dad—and how that should help us to be good and to choose the right. Then we sang ‘I Am a Child of God.’”
Ashley waved her hands in the air and said, “That’s my favorite song!”
Frankie listened closely. They had heard the same thing he did, but they seemed to understand it. And he could tell by their faces that they believed it. Mom must have seen the confusion in his eyes because she said, “Frankie, we’ll talk more later about what it means to be a child of God.”
After dinner, the kids all plopped down on the big rug in front of the couch. Reaching for his scriptures, Dad said, “Let’s talk about what it means to be a child of God. Here is a scripture that might help. It’s in 1 Nephi 17:36, and it says, ‘Behold, the Lord hath created the earth that it should be inhabited; and he hath created his children that they should possess it.’” Dad paused. “What do you think that means?”
Ashley’s hand flew up. “It means that Heavenly Father is the Father of our spirits. He made this beautiful earth for us and sent us here to grow.” She nodded her head, as if agreeing with herself.
“That’s right,” Mom said. “Heavenly Father loves us and wants us to come back to Him, because we belong to Him.”
“Even me?” Frankie asked timidly. “Do I belong to Him?”
“Absolutely, Frankie. He loves you and wants you to come back,” Dad said. “He wants you to come back so much that He will help you in any way He can. One way He has already helped you was by sending you to us, so we can teach you about Him. If you will pray and ask Him, He will bless you and help you.”
Later that night as Frankie snuggled under the covers, he thought, “I have a Father in Heaven.” In all the foster homes he had been in, no one had ever told him about Heavenly Father. It felt good to know that there was someone in heaven he belonged to, someone he could always talk to. He had never felt like he belonged anywhere—until now. In his heart Frankie knew that Mr. and Mrs. Adams—Mom and Dad—loved him.
“Maybe that is why I am in this home,” he thought. “Maybe God wanted me here.” For the first time Frankie slid to his knees and started to pray. It felt funny at first, but he felt like it was the right thing to do. “If He is my Father, I bet He would like to hear from me. I bet He’s missed me,” he thought as he bowed his head.

SYDNEY—“Flames were shooting 50 feet into the air. They were about 15 yards off. I could feel the heat on my face. That’s hot enough to know what firefighters would feel.”
But Michael James Davis isn’t a firefighter. The then 18-year-old member of the Sutherland Ward, Sydney North Stake, was standing in the driveway of his family’s home, ready to flee in horror as fire surged up from the valley where normally he walks his dog Jess.
The fire was one of about 130 that ravaged much of New South Wales in January, many of them set by arsonists. Nearly 1.5 million acres were burned.
Michael and his father had been trying to pump water from their swimming pool to hose down their house, but the fire got too intense. Firefighters ordered them to evacuate.
“I haven’t prayed so much in a long time,” Mike said. “I felt calm, but I still thought the house was going to burn. Just as long as everyone was safe, that was the main thing.”
Out in the street, he saw “everyone crying and trying to get their children out. All the people in the street, everyone just fled. It hurt me to witness that. That was almost as bad as the fire.”
He and his father joined the rest of their family at the home of some fellow Church members. After 45 minutes, a radio announcement said the fires had passed and residents were allowed to check on their homes.
“First we went to the chapel, to let them know we were safe and to see if anyone needed help. Then we came home to inspect the damage.” Miraculously, their home had been spared, even though the house next door had burned to the ground.
“All around their porch there were thick shrubs, and the shrubs spread the fire to their house,” Michael explained. Everything was gone but the foundation and a children’s play area out in the yard.
At his own house, Michael and his father found that two big gum trees in the backyard had burned completely. An iron fence had melted in the intense heat. And on the back porch, a mop sitting on the wooden deck had burned—the scorch marks are still there—but the deck had not ignited. That’s how close the fire had come.
That night Mike was allowed to sleep in his home. “The air smelled bad,” he remembers. “You could look down in the valley and see the embers glowing in the dark.” He lay there thinking of what he’d learned in just a few short hours:
—“Heavenly Father did hear my prayers. He helped me to be calm, to know that everything would be all right, even though he didn’t tell me exactly what would happen.”
—“There was a lot of help and friendship from the Church, but there was a lot of help from people in the general area as well. I took a walk around an area that wasn’t burning. Everyone was stopping and having a chat and saying, ‘Is your family all right? Is there anything we can do to help?’ These are people I hadn’t ever seen, people who weren’t in the Church, and they were good people trying to help each other.”
Over the next few days, he learned some additional things:
—“Fifteen members of our ward chipped in and bought a new fridge and a washing machine and brought blankets for the people in the house that burned down. They were just renting, but they didn’t have the contents insured. We helped them start getting their life back together.”
—“The worst thing is that police caught people looting burned out houses for jewelry. How people could do that to someone who is already hurt by their house being burned down is incredible to me. I’ve seen the bad side of people and the good side, too. I’ll take the good side.”
Time passed. “Soon we had the pool cleaned of the soot deposited during the fire, and fertilizer greened up our grass.” Down in the valley, green shoots poked through the ashes on the ground.
“Life comes back,” Mike says. “But the memory of this fire will be around for a long, long time.” Even more enduring, however, will be the new understanding of the things that are really important in life, and Mike’s deepened gratitude for them.

Late one evening, my son Garrett called from Eau Claire, Wisconsin, USA. He and his wife, Shelly, and their children, were traveling from Alabama, where Garrett had military training, to Minot Air Force Base in North Dakota. He explained that while they were traveling through Wisconsin, Shelly became seriously ill. They had found a hospital, and Shelly was scheduled for an emergency appendectomy the next morning.
I arranged to fly and meet them, but I couldn’t get there until the following day. My son expressed concern about what to do with his children—a five-year-old, a one-year-old, and a three-week-old baby—while their mom was in surgery. Not knowing anyone in the area, he decided to call the bishop in Minot, even though they had not met. The bishop in Minot said he would contact the bishop in Eau Claire.
The following morning, the bishop in Eau Claire, along with the Relief Society president, met Garrett at his hotel. They said they would be happy to care for the children while Shelly was in surgery. Shelly later commented that she was completely at peace letting two strangers—who were family in the gospel—watch her children. By the time I arrived in Eau Claire, Shelly was recovering and my grandkids were back with her and Garrett. We were grateful for the help we received in our time of need.

One bishop taught his new deacons quorum presidency these duties. So the young presidency began to talk about what that might look like in their quorum and in their ward. They decided they should start visiting elderly ward members to see what they needed and then do that.

Among those they served was Alan, a rough, often profane, and sometimes hostile neighbor. Alan’s wife, Wanda, became a member of the Church, but Alan was, as we say, something of a piece of work.

Still, the deacons went to work, comically ignoring his insults, while they shoveled snow and took out trash. Deacons can be hard to hate, and Alan eventually began to love them. At some point they invited him to church.

“I don’t like church,” he responded.

“Well, you like us,” they said. “So come with us. You can just come to our quorum meeting if you want.”

And with the bishop’s approval, he came—and he kept coming.

The deacons became teachers, and as they continued to serve him, he taught them to work on cars and to build things. By the time these deacons-turned-teachers became priests, Alan was calling them “my boys.”

They were earnestly preparing for missions and asked him if they could practice missionary lessons with him. He swore that he would never listen and never believe, but, yeah, they could practice at his house.

And then Alan got sick. And he softened.

And one day in quorum meeting, he tenderly asked them to pray for him to quit smoking, and so they did. But then they followed him home and confiscated all of his tobacco stash.

As his failing health put Alan into hospitals and rehab centers, “his boys” served him, quietly exuding powers of priesthood and of love unfeigned (see Doctrine and Covenants 121:41).

The miracle continued when Alan asked to be baptized—but then he passed away before it could happen. At his request, his deacons-turned-priests were the pallbearers and the speakers at his funeral, where they—fittingly—warned, expounded, exhorted, taught, and invited all to Christ.

And later, in the temple, it was one of “Alan’s boys” who baptized that erstwhile deacons quorum president in proxy for Alan.

Everything John the Baptist said to do, they did. They did what deacons, teachers, and priests do all over this Church and all over this world.

In the general Relief Society meeting of September 2006, President Gordon B. Hinckley related an experience shared by a divorced single mother of seven children then ranging in ages from 7 to 16. She had gone across the street to deliver something to a neighbor. She said:

“As I turned around to walk back home, I could see my house lighted up. I could hear echoes of my children as I had walked out of the door a few minutes earlier. They were saying: ‘Mom, what are we going to have for dinner?’ ‘Can you take me to the library?’ ‘I have to get some poster paper tonight.’ Tired and weary, I looked at that house and saw the light on in each of the rooms. I thought of all of those children who were home waiting for me to come and meet their needs. My burdens felt heavier than I could bear.

“I remember looking through tears toward the sky, and I said, ‘Dear Father, I just can’t do it tonight. I’m too tired. I can’t face it. I can’t go home and take care of all those children alone. Could I just come to You and stay with You for just one night? …’

“I didn’t really hear the words of reply, but I heard them in my mind. The answer was: ‘No, little one, you can’t come to me now. … But I can come to you.’”2

Further authority to act in the name of the Lord soon followed. The Kirtland Temple was dedicated on March 27, 1836. In that temple, the Savior appeared to Joseph Smith and Oliver Cowdery, followed by the appearances of Moses, Elias, and Elijah, who gave additional priesthood keys to the Prophet.

One day in 1961 while Elder Slagowski and I were knocking on doors in Wilhelmshaven, West Germany, an elderly widow graciously welcomed us into her humble apartment. I was so surprised that I asked if she really understood who we were. She assured us that she did and that she had been waiting for us.
She told us that two Latter-day Saint elders had knocked on her door decades before, when she was a young mother. Because she was busy at the time, she had turned them away. Afterward she felt terrible about it and vowed that if Latter-day Saint missionaries ever knocked again, she would invite them in.
Emma Henke had a keen mind, and she listened to our message intently, but she often seemed to have a distant, far-off look. She was kind to us and was always eager to share her meager fare, but we wondered if she truly comprehended the importance of our message. Finally we decided to put her on our callback list and just drop by from time to time when we were in the neighborhood.
A few weeks later we stopped in again. As we visited, Emma suddenly announced, to our surprise, her determination to be baptized!
It was only then that she began sharing details from her difficult life. During the last days of World War I, her infant daughter had died. In 1924 a nine-year-old daughter had succumbed to diphtheria. During the winter of 1941–42 she had received her last letter from her 21-year-old son, who was fighting on the Russian front during World War II. She learned of his death a short time later.
Emma’s husband, Hugo, had despised the policies of the Nazi government. She often pleaded with him to be more cautious. Early one day in 1944, after a government radio-beam locator tracked a British Broadcasting Corporation signal to the Henkes’ home, the Gestapo broke down the door and arrested him. He was sent to a concentration camp near Hamburg, and Emma and their last surviving child, a young son, were left to fend for themselves.
Emma went to the local Nazi official responsible for her husband’s imprisonment and pleaded on her knees for his life but to no avail. She later learned of Hugo’s death in March 1945. The official himself was subsequently sentenced to life in prison but had been released shortly before we knocked on Emma’s door. She said she often saw him speeding along the streets of the city in an expensive new car. On the day she requested baptism, Emma said she had finally found the strength to forgive him for taking away her husband and rejecting her pleas for mercy. She had resolved to leave judgment in the hands of the Lord.
Emma became a faithful member of the Church and found great joy and comfort in discovering the truths of the restored gospel. In November 1966, while hurrying across a public square in Wilhelmshaven on her way to a Relief Society meeting, she collapsed and died of a heart attack.
Sister Henke refused to become embittered by the trials of her life, and she died free of the rancor of revenge. Surely this dear sister enjoyed a marvelous reunion with those she had loved and lost.

After the completion of the Salt Lake Temple in 1893, non-LDS sculptor Cyrus Dallin was asked to create a new design, one that most angel Moroni statues are patterned after today. Dallin wrote that his experience with the project “brought me nearer to God than anything I ever did. It seemed to me that I came to know what it means to commune with angels from heaven.”3

Speaking of the COVID-19 pandemic, Elder D. Todd Christofferson, of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, said it was a time that required having “a constant consciousness of the well-being of those around you.”1 Most of us experienced fear and worry due to the uncertainty caused by COVID-19. The confinement forced us to stay home to prevent all physical contact with others. In addition, this gave great opportunities to our family to express our love, to serve, and to minister. And we are grateful that we have sometimes made a resolution, as a family, to forget about ourselves for the benefit of other people. We ministered through technology, calling people we considered most affected by the crisis in order to comfort them and to hear about their needs. At times, it was just a few texts or social media messaging.
To prepare for the quarantine, like many people, we stocked up on basic items, and even some cash. But we learned that our desire to serve enabled us to reach out to others either on our own initiative or through their solicitation. Although we did not know how long the confinement would last, we didn’t hesitate to donate food and at times money from our small reserves, to a few families and people who were in need (of course, while taking necessary health precautions). The Savior’s instruction given to His new disciples whom He had chosen and called among the Nephites comforted us: “For, behold, ye are they whom I have chosen to minister unto this people . . . Take no thought for your life, what you will eat, or what you shall drink” (3 Nephi 13:25).
No words can express the reward we received. Just as for the widow of Zarephath whose flour was not lacking, and oil did not decrease (see 1 Kings 17:16); our little supplies at home did not dry up. We felt a sense of comfort and tranquillity during this difficult time and a sense of confidence that all would be well for our family. A brother wrote to us a little later: “I’ve been thinking about you today since the morning. I am realizing how your little acts of care and love strengthen our lives and give us the energy to continue with a happy heart. That counts. Thank you for these small means that your life abounds of during your services. You are listening. Please know that your little actions make a difference. Thank you.”

I am the only member in Skadaverdi, Iceland, and I would like to express my thanks to the New Era for all the help it has given me, both in my personal growth and in my missionary work. Many Church works have been translated into our language, but nothing has been as successful as lending my friends the New Era. By the time everyone reads it, it is almost ready to fall apart. Thank you for a super magazine. As we say in Icelandic, it is just pakalegt—in other words, it’s great!
Illugi ArassmundsonSkadaverdi, Iceland

Before you ask, let me tell you the answer is no. I am not a Mormon. Okay, I am basically a mild-mannered, clean-cut guy who happens to be named Jared. Yeah, I know. There are a lot of Mormon boys named Jared. But as far as I know, the Mormon church doesn’t have a monopoly on clean-living guys named Jared. Just because I’m not a Mormon doesn’t mean I don’t like them.
Take Oscar Whitman, for example. Oscar is a Mormon. He’s a witty, athletic, clean-cut kid like me, and that’s probably why he became my best friend, despite the fact he’s a Mormon.
I first met Osc in sophomore English—he sat behind me—and we got to know each other so well in football (he ran, I blocked) and in basketball (he shot, I rebounded) that by the end of our sophomore year, we were best friends.
The first year I knew him, he never said two words about church stuff. And I wouldn’t have known he was a Mormon if he hadn’t refused to join a bunch of us for some Sunday hoops.
“Sunday basketball wouldn’t go over too well with my dad,” Osc told me. “He’s the bishop of my ward.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “You’re a Mormon?”
“Yeah, is that bad?”
“No, it’s just that, well, I never figured you were one of them, that’s all.”
Osc just smiled.
One afternoon about two weeks ago, Osc and I were eating lunch together in the cafeteria. Just before we finished, he said, “Hey, Jared, I talked to Carol Lunt yesterday at church.”
“Carol Lunt?” I nearly choked. “You mean she’s Mormon too?” Carol Lunt, the most beautiful girl in the junior class, occupied the seat in front of me in math. For three months I had been trying to get up enough courage to ask her out.
“Yeah, she’s one of us. Anyway, I thought you might be interested because we were talking about you.”
“Great. I suppose you told her what a terrible heathen I am, right?”
He smiled and shook his head. “No, instead of telling her the truth about you, I told her a bunch of baloney about what a clean-cut, hard-working, nice dude you are. And you know what was really weird? I think she believed everything I said.”
My stomach, or maybe it was my heart, turned a back flip.
“Anyway,” Osc continued, “I told her she and Marie Allen—you know Marie, don’t you?—ought to go out with some of us sometime.”
“And what’d she do, throw up right then and there?”
“No, she said it sounded like fun. You want me to go ahead and set it up? I mean, can you handle going out with a bunch of Mormons?”
“Well, I’m already used to you, and I suppose I can put up with a couple more for a few hours—especially if one of them is Carol Lunt.”
Osc and Carol planned the big event. They weren’t letting me in on anything. All Osc would say was that it was going to be “steak night” so I should bring extra money and “not dress like a slob.”
Saturday night, Osc picked each of us up and drove us to the Porter House, the largest, most popular steak restaurant in town. As we pulled into its parking lot, the aroma of charbroiled beef wafted into my open window and made my mouth water. It was going to be a great night.
Osc and I both ordered the Porter House special. Carol wanted filet mignon, and Marie ordered salisbury steak. After the waitress had taken our orders, Marie said, “Did you hear what Brother Craig did at Mutual last week?” Osc and Carol shook their heads. “He found out that last month it was the teachers from the Fourth Ward who started playing basketball in the cultural hall before our Relief Society was finished.”
Osc and Carol listened with interest, but I had no idea what Marie was talking about. She was speaking English, but most of it didn’t make a bit of sense to me.
“Well,” she continued, “one of their basketballs bounced right onto the table that held all the cakes the women had made in their cake-decorating lesson and smashed almost all of them.”
“Oh, man,” said Osc, “I bet Sister Hansen went nuts.”
Marie nodded. “She tried to make the boys stop, but they just grabbed the ball and ran out of the cultural hall, tracking frosting all over the building.”
“So that’s where all that mess came from,” said Carol.
“Right,” nodded Marie.
Finally, I couldn’t stand it any longer. “Wait a minute; wait a minute,” I interrupted. “Will somebody please explain what in the world you’re talking about?”
“Church stuff, Jared,” said Osc.
“I figured that much, but I never knew Mormons had nuns and monks.”
“Huh?” we said in unison.
“Nuns and monks. You know, sisters and brothers.”
Marie giggled and Carol tried to hide her grin behind her napkin.
“Don’t be such a Gentile,” said Osc. “We’re talking about people in our ward. Mormons call each other brother and sister. Like Carol, she’s Sister Lunt. Marie is Sister Allen, and to them I’m Brother Whitman. Understand?”
“Okay, I get it,” I said. “But I don’t understand what a bunch of teachers were doing in a cultural hall playing basketball. Imagine what would happen if some faculty members got caught dribbling a basketball in the school auditorium?”
Osc sighed. “A cultural hall is a Mormon gym.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. And teachers aren’t teachers. They’re 14- and 15-year-old guys who have the Aaronic Priesthood.”
“Give me a break. High school guys have the priesthood in your church?”
“Sure,” said Osc. “I’m a priest.”
“Oh, really, Father Whitman? Where’s your collar?”
“Come on, Jared. Not a Catholic priest. It’s different with Mormons.” He looked at Carol who was biting her lower lip to keep from laughing. “Sister Lunt, would you mind translating our Mormon talk for Jared tonight? I’m not getting through to him.”
“Sure, Brother Whitman, I’ll be glad to.”
Our dinner arrived and interrupted the conversation. It took us nearly an hour to work our way through the steaks, baked potatoes, salads, and vegetables. But dinner was fantastic, and not because I was sitting in front of the largest and most delicious steak I had ever seen. Osc, Carol, and Marie were great company, too, even if they were Mormons.
While the waitress was clearing away the remains of our feast, Marie and Carol excused themselves so they could go make themselves even more beautiful for part two of the double date.
“Great meal, Osc. This is a blast,” I said, after they’d left.
“Hey, what else could you expect from your best friend?”
“So what’s next,” I inquired.
Osc slid a toothpick into his mouth. “I told you this was a steak night, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, and we’ve had our steaks. Now what?”
“Another steak,” was his reply.
“No way, man. I can’t eat another bite. I thought we’d be going to a movie or something.”
He shook his head. “Nope. Carol and I planned this. It’s steak night all the way.”
When the girls came back, we paid our bill, left the restaurant, and drove until we came to a large building. “This is the place, guys,” said Osc, as he pulled into the crowded parking lot.
I couldn’t believe it. These guys had led me into a Mormon trap! “Hold it,” I said. “I’m not going to church with you. Osc, you said this was going to be a steak night.”
“Yeah, a steak dinner and a stake dance. This building is a stake—s-t-a-k-e—center, Jared, and there’s a dance here tonight.”
“Oh, a dance.” I blushed for doubting my friends. “Sorry I panicked, but I figured you guys were dragging me to some sort of religious revival. Let me guess. The dance is in the cultural hall.”
Osc chuckled and Carol said, “Very good, Jared. You’re finally getting the hang of Mormon-talk.”
I wasn’t sure what to expect from my first Mormon dance. Waltzes, maybe. Or if it was really wild, a square dance. But the music coming through the door of the cultural hall sounded familiar enough, and the few kids I saw in the lobby looked like regular kids.
On the inside, though, it didn’t look like any dance I’d ever seen before. The first thing I noticed were the lights—they were still on. They weren’t glaring bright, but they were on. And the music was different too. At most school dances, the music’s loud enough to pry the floorboards loose; this music was loud, but not enough to melt anybody’s eardrums.
As it turned out, we danced every dance that night, and I had the time of my life. After it was over, Osc drove us all home. When he got to my house, the first stop, he parked the car, turned around from the front seat, handed Carol a shopping bag, and said, “Go ahead, Carol.”
She reached into the bag and pulled out two packages, each wrapped in the Sunday comics. “These are mementos of tonight,” she said, handing one to Marie and one to me.
“The finishing touch on steak night,” Osc added. “And yours has something special inside, Jared. You just can’t open it until you get home.”
I said good night and went inside. I went straight to my bedroom and opened the package. Inside was an aluminum tent stake with “Steak-Stake Night” written on one side in light red nail polish and “Group Date #1” written on the other side. Also in the wrapping was a navy-blue paperback book, the Book of Mormon. I propped the stake up among the trophies on top of my dresser and flopped down on my bed to look at the book my friends had given me.
Pasted inside the front cover was a photo of the three of them taken at one of those instant photo booths. Under the photo was a message Osc had written:
Dear Jared,
This book contains the precious truths of the gospel of Jesus Christ, and it’s a book that each one of us has studied and read. We know it’s true, and we know its principles are the keys to happiness, not only in this life, but in the life to come. As your friends, we hope you’ll read it, think about it, and pray about it. If some parts are difficult to understand, we’ll be glad to explain them to you or find someone who can. We know if you’ll read and pray about this book, you’ll learn for yourself that it’s true.
Your Mormon friends,Oscar, Carol, and Marie
I closed the book and lay on my bed thinking about the three of them. Oscar, Carol, and Marie were special people, some of the best I’d ever known. I wondered what made them that way. Whatever it was, I was glad to have friends like them, friends who cared enough about me to share something that was obviously very important to them.
It was getting late, so I put the Book of Mormon on my desk and started getting ready for bed. Tomorrow I’d start reading that book to see if I could find out what makes it—and my friends—so special.

“I appreciate the part in For the Strength of Youth that says we need to dress appropriately,” says María Alejandra Cabeza de Vaca, 12. “One day at school we were allowed to dress any way we wanted. I felt really bad because some of my friends dressed immodestly. I said to one of them, ‘Tomorrow I’m going to bring you something that will help you a lot.’ I gave her a copy of For the Strength of Youth. She read it and said she felt it was true and didn’t want to dress immodestly anymore. It’s good to share what we have so the world knows the good things we’re learning.”

Some 50 years ago I became an assistant Scoutmaster in a little country town in southern Idaho. What a challenge it was to work with and to lead 24 boys in the first Scout troop in this little rural community. Talk about rewards for effort! Every day of my life has been enriched by that association and service. I wish time permitted me to tell you the satisfying story of those 24 lively, sometimes mischievous, but wonderful boys. I have been rewarded tenfold. I think I will divert just long enough to tell you one little experience.
In those days each ward was expected to have a boys’ chorus, and the bishop would often invite the Scoutmaster to lead it. So it was in our case.
For weeks, before and after Scout meetings, we prepared, and finally the time came when we would meet in competition with the other wards in the stake.
We were successful in winning over the 11 wards, and then we were to meet the winners of six other stakes of the Cache Valley at Logan, Utah. It was a great experience to go down to the great city of Logan, a city of about 10,000 people. Many of those boys had never been 25 miles from home. I shall never forget approaching that great building, the tabernacle in Logan. We went inside and drew for position, and to the increase of our anxiety we drew last place.
Finally the time came for our group to march up to the platform. As the accompanist played “The Stars and Stripes Forever,” those 24 boys went up the aisle and formed a half-moon on the stage, while I crouched down between a couple of benches to try and give them some leadership. I got a great thrill as those 24 boys sang together, and of course, you can well appreciate I would not be telling this story had we not won in Logan.
We went home literally walking on air! We were so happy that our little community of 50 families had won over the other stakes and wards of the valley.
Monday night was Scout meeting, and shortly after the meeting opened one of the boys reminded me that in a moment of great anxiety or weakness, I don’t know which, I had promised that if we were successful in winning the contest, I would take them on a 35-mile hike over the mountain to Bear Lake. Well, of course, a promise made is a debt unpaid.
We began planning our hike, and during the meeting one little 12-year-old raised his hand and very formally said, “Mr. Scoutmaster, I would like to make a motion.” That was a new thing in Scouting, or it was for me. I said, “All right, what?” He said, “I’d like to make a motion, so we will not be bothered with combs and brushes on this trip, that we all clip our hair off.”
I noticed three or four older boys starting to squirm in their seats. They had reached that very critical age in life when they were beginning to take notice of the girls, and a clipped head, they knew, would be no asset to them with the women. We put the question to a vote, and it carried with these three or four older boys dissenting. Then it was agreed that if they didn’t submit willingly, there were other ways of enforcing the rules of the troop, and they submitted. Then, true to form, never forgetting, one of them said, “How about the Scoutmasters?”
It was our turn to squirm. But the following Saturday at the county seat, two Scoutmasters took their places in the barber’s chair while the barber very gleefully went over each head with the clippers. As he neared the end of the job, he said, “Now, if you fellows would let me shave your heads, I would do it for nothing.” And so we started on that hike—24 boys with heads clipped and two Scoutmasters with heads shaven.
Well, it was a glorious three weeks together with those wonderful boys out in the hills and in the mountains and on the lake. I wish I could take the time to relate the life of each one of those boys from that time until the present; I am proud of them. One of the joys of working with boys is the fact that you do get your pay as you go along. You have an opportunity to observe the results of your leadership daily as you work with them through the years and watch them grow into stalwart manhood, accepting eagerly its challenges and responsibilities.

I never gave much thought to why some speakers are more interesting than others until one of my own sacrament talks bombed. I had prepared what I considered a good talk about patriotism with plenty of quotations and scriptures, but they didn’t help much. I ended up putting more people to sleep than the sandman. I was so embarrassed that I vowed I would never give a boring talk again.